The Truth About Comfort Cove (15 page)

L
ucy spent
F
riday evening
with Sandy, giving Marie a break to meet another one of their old high-school friends for dinner. Her mother’s caretaker was talking about moving in with Sandy permanently.

“There’s no point in paying for two places,” she’d said just before leaving that evening. “Sandy’s been asking for years, and I’m getting too old to clean so many bathrooms.”

Sandy had been asking Marie to live with them since Lucy was a little girl—probably because she’d known that life would have been better for Lucy if another woman, a sober woman, had been there to mother her.

And Lucy had a feeling that Sandy’s close call the week before had scared Marie. Sandy, for all of her issues, was the only family Marie had left. And, even drunk, Sandy was a good friend to Marie. She listened. She encouraged. She cared.

“Just one, Luce? A glass of wine won’t hurt. Marie’s been letting me have one a night. After dinner.”
“I’m not Marie.”
And after sitting in that hospital waiting room, afraid her mother was going to die, Lucy couldn’t bear to see Sandy with a glass to her lips again.
“I’ve got the shakes, Luce.”
“Take a pill.”
She didn’t look away from the TV game show that they were watching. She was rooting for the young, pregnant brunette. Sandy wanted the blonde newlywed to win.
Neither of them cheered for the thirty-something, handsome man who was the third contestant at the podium.
The blonde won a bonus trip. Sandy smiled. Sat on the edge of her chair. She’d lost weight again and her size zeros were hanging off her bones.
Caught up in the show, Sandy didn’t ask again for something to drink until an hour later. The requests came every five minutes or so after that until finally, just past ten, Lucy gave her mother a sleeping pill, watched while the woman changed into her pajamas and then held the covers as her mother settled into her queen-size bed. Grabbing the remote control for the flat-screen TV she’d bought Sandy for Christmas, Lucy climbed on top of the covers on the other side of her mother’s bed and settled down to watch a movie she’d seen a hundred times before.

“C
arol of the
B
ells
”
sounded
halfway through the movie. After quickly silencing her ringtone she glanced at the screen of her phone. U up?

Yeah.
Me too.
She smiled as she typed, No shit.
Hot date?
She read the words a second time. Where had that come

from?
But curious, she wrote, No. You?
No.
He was thinking in terms of her with a hot date? Could that

mean he viewed her as a hot woman? Or a woman who could get a hot date? A woman who had hot dates?
A woman? Not just a cop?
Lucy smiled again. If she wasn’t careful she was going to fall for this guy. And then get hurt.
You home?
She hesitated before typing in the affirmative, loath to lie to Ramsey in spite of the fact that lying to keep her life with Sandy private was as inbred as breathing.
The fact that his next question would be to ask if he could call—though why they’d started checking with each other first she didn’t know—drove her reply.
No.
Work?
No. She hesitated. And then, before he had a chance to reply typed, Mama’s.
Everything okay?
Fine. Sleeping.
You bored?
Little. Lucy adjusted the pillows behind her and lay back, smiling again. Would he take pity on her and entertain her for a while?
Anything in the box?
The mention of work brought her back to reality, and Lucy wasn’t completely unhappy to be able to tell him about the day. She didn’t need to, which was why she hadn’t called him, but since he’d asked…
Clothes, a razor, deodorant… She knew what kind Sloan wore now and would never, ever be able to pass it in the store again without thinking of him. Damn him.
And framed photo of American flag with some numbers written on back of it.
She sent the message off because of reaching length limits and then kept typing.
Looks like some kind of coordinates.
For what?
No clue. Not yet, anyway. Amber was going to be questioning Wakerby over the weekend, before the meeting with his attorney at the beginning of next week. They’d discussed their tactics together and agreed that they needed to up the heat on him over the weekend, but with the new evidence in hand, it made sense for Amber, not Lucy, to be the one to make this visit.
Lucy was one hundred percent good with the decision.
In the meantime, Spending the weekend with maps. Grocery store where Mama taken. Place by river where found. Areas around and in between. Checking coordinates. If lucky, will be a match.
She’d have started already if she hadn’t promised to spend the night with Sandy. And no matter how much she was itching to get started, no matter how good her mother’s glass of wine sounded at the moment while she champed at the bit, Lucy was not going to risk doing any work on the Wakerby case in her mother’s presence. Or in her home. The chance of Sandy seeing something, having a relapse, was not worth it.
Keep me posted.
Course. Anything with employer?
No extra gas, just different time. Truck likely not full when picked up in morning explains early stop.
Lucy read the text again.
And then typed, Had to turn in gas receipts.
Yes.
Receipt with time stamp could be used as alibi.
Yes. So maybe not dead end.
Agreed, she typed.
Question.
Go.
You ever consider trusting a guy when he’s not working?
Lucy started to sweat. ???
Personally, not professionally.
He wasn’t suggesting… He couldn’t be asking…
Could he?
Depends. She had no idea what to do.
On what?
Was he flirting with her? Did she really want him to? She’d clearly been afflicted with a desire to jump his bones, but beyond that…
The guy.
Oh.
She stared at her phone. That was it? He was going to leave it like that?
She reread their string. Which had started with him asking her if she’d had a hot date. Her stomach had butterflies. Like the salad she’d shared with her mother for dinner wasn’t sitting well with her, although she couldn’t imagine what, in a grilled chicken salad, would upset her stomach.
Her phone remained still. No messages popping in. Was he going to throw something like that out there and then just go without even saying good-night?
Why did you ask? she typed carefully and sent.
Wondered. The reply shot right back. Had he been waiting for her to say something?
Lucy shook her head. This is all too confusing. Did you have a guy in mind?
She wasn’t breathing properly. And wanted to drop her phone when the reply came back. A good detective knew when she was in over her head.
Knowing was the difference between living and dying.
Yeah.
Who?
Her screen flashed. He’d answered. Lucy got up and went to the bathroom. Down the hall from her mother’s room, not the one in her mother’s room. She did her business. Finished. Sat on the side of the tub, biting her lower lip.
You’d think she was in high school. Except that she’d never been a ninny in high school. Not even once. She’d been too busy dealing with life to have a single ninny moment.
She thought of Ramsey, alone somewhere in the middle of the night, sending a text and waiting for a reply.
It’d be cruel to make him wait. He didn’t deserve that.
She pushed the green button on her phone. Opened up the text message waiting for her.
It was all of one word.
Me.

explain away by the one beer he’d had after work at Bill’s invitation several hours before—Ramsey opened the Jack Colton folder.

Halfway through the first couple of pages, he picked up his phone, just to make certain he hadn’t missed something coming in.

There was nothing new in the first few pages of the folder, either.
It wasn’t like Lucy to walk away from anything. Obviously he’d offended her.
Because he needed her input on the Claire Sanderson case, he picked up his phone, reopened the text conversation between the two of them and typed, Sorry, with one thumb.
She’d warned him. It could appear that he’d ignored her warning. Just what she’d probably expect a guy to do.
For what?
Pushing.
Pushing what?
Not sure.
???
Leave it.
Not a good idea.
He frowned. The whole thing was out of control. What do you want?
To know what you want.
That was easy. Your trust.
You’ve got it.
Relaxed, he made his second stupid move of the night. Outside of business?
Why in the hell had he done that? He picked up the folder again. And heard his text message tone before he’d focused on the first Jack Colton page.
Yes.
Lying there nude, with the covers halfway up his chest, Ramsey nodded. Squirmed in the bed a bit.
And then said, Good. Night.
Night.
He went back to work with a smile on his face.

J
ack
C
olton
’
s handshake
was firm. He looked Ramsey straight in the eye and took the seat Ramsey offered. The same one Lonna Baker had occupied the morning before.

“Coffee?” he asked, standing by the pot on the counter. “Yes, thank you.” Colton’s tone was respectful. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
Ramsey poured himself a cup, as well. Black and strong. He

took his time before he sat across from the man and officially started the interview. He needed the time. He couldn’t get a read on Jack Colton. Either the guy was as honest and good as he seemed or he was the best actor Ramsey had ever met.

The best criminal. He’d never met one without a chink of some kind.
“Thank you for coming in.” With nothing left to do, he sat.
“If I can be of any assistance… I feel horrible about that man, Frank Whittier. I can’t sleep for thinking about the twenty-five years he’s lost. Those years are on my shoulders. If I’d known…”
Colton’s gaze was direct; the moisture in his eyes real.
There were no other suspects. And little girls did not just evaporate into thin air.
Something happened to Claire Sanderson.
And there wasn’t a single person involved who was not cooperating completely. Everyone seemed to sincerely want to help. To know what happened.
Someone had to be lying.
His money was on Jack.
“I’ve had a look at your bank records.”
“You what? How? Why?” Jack’s brow furrowed.
“I got a warrant.”
Ramsey watched every nuance of the other man’s countenance, finding his way in.
“You got a warrant.” Confusion gave way to resignation in the older man’s expression. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied with your findings,” Jack Colton continued in a voice bearing not the least bit of fear. “I would have turned everything over to you if you’d have asked. I have nothing to hide.”
Ramsey wished he had proof to argue that point.
And that was why Colton was there. To give Ramsey his proof.
“I had a visit with your former employer yesterday. Randall Davenport.”
“His father was my employer.”
“He passed away. Randall runs the business now.”
“I suspect it’s doing well, then. Randy was a bit squirrelly, with little sense of humor, always one step above the rest of us, but he was also honest and organized as hell. Even more so than his father.”
Thinking of the binders lining the walls of Davenport’s office, the orderly files in the basement, Ramsey had to acknowledge that Jack Colton was good at reading people.
So he could be good at working them.
Like he was trying to work Ramsey?
“You’re right about one thing,” he said now, opening his binder. “Davenport keeps meticulous records.” He pulled out the delivery time sheet from the day Claire Sanderson went missing and slid it in front of Jack. “This shows an unscheduled gas stop that just happens to coincide with the time frame of Claire Sanderson’s disappearance.”
Colton looked over the sheet, but only briefly enough to identify it. “The truck I drew that day came in half empty the night before,” he said, his gaze still openly meeting Ramsey’s.
“And you remember that? More than twenty-five years later?”
“I remember because it was the morning the little girl went missing. I lost time going back around the block to check on her, and then had to stop for gas.”
“I’m just wondering,” Ramsey said, leaning forward. “If you noticed the truck was low on gas in the morning, why didn’t you stop for gas right away? Or wait until lunch? Why go right after Claire Sanderson went missing?”
Colton blinked. And then said easily, “I did it then because there was an accident stopping traffic and making the light at the intersection permanently red. The only way around the traffic was to cut through the gas station. One of our drivers had just been given a ticket for cutting through a gas station to avoid a red light, and beyond that, in our drivers’ safety manual it told us never to cut through parking lots to avoid traffic. I did quick calculations and figured I would spend less time getting gas and leaving via the other side of the gas station than sitting in the traffic. As I just said, I’d already lost time that morning.”
The explanation was given slowly, clearly, as though Colton were speaking with someone who struggled to understand.
Or because Ramsey was getting to him?
“You know, Detective, you’re all alike. You guys get some kind of mind-set of what makes a criminal and you look at every case through the same eyes. Frank Whittier had been seen with the child in his car, so he must have done it, right? Because statistics tell that more times than not a child abduction involves a family member or close friend.”
Colton knew more than the average citizen.
“And now you find out that I was in the area. I was young, in need of money and driving an enclosed truck so I must have done it.”
The profile fit. And the reason profiles existed was because human nature was human nature. Human beings naturally acted in certain ways. And patterns of behavior solved crimes. Successfully.
“Maybe if someone had looked outside the cop perspective, or away from all of the personalities you learn about in detective school, you’d have found that little girl.”
Now Colton was pissing Ramsey off.
“You watch a lot of cop shows?” he asked quietly.
“No. Cable is a waste of money. I read. I also wonder, did anyone ever check the big sewage drain just down from that little girl’s home? You know the kind that are big enough for kids to stand up in? The kind where you see drug deals being made? That’s the first place I would have looked.”
Everything inside of Ramsey stilled. The room was encased in cotton, buffering Colton’s words so they would not be lost.
“I’m sure they did,” Ramsey said, when he wasn’t sure at all. He knew those early reports front and back and sideways, too. There’d been no mention of a drainage ditch or sewer of any kind. But the entire area had been searched. Multiple times. By hundreds of people.
“Why would it be the first place you’d look?” he asked as though they were just making conversation.
“Because one day when I was on my route, a couple of little kids were out on a driveway trying to lob a basketball into a hoop that was way too high for them to reach. It caught my attention. Just then one of the kids tossed the ball up—it missed, hit the pole, rolled into the street and down into that ditch. Next thing I know the kid was tearing across the street after his ball. He ran right in front of me. If I hadn’t been watching, I could have hit him. I didn’t wait to see him come back up out of the pipe with his basketball, because I would have gotten behind schedule, but I never drove on that street again without watching for kids running into or out of that pipe.”
Colton should have been a writer. His attention to detail was remarkable.
Or…he was telling the truth.
“I did not take that little girl, Detective.”
“Then you won’t mind giving us a sample of your DNA, will you? Just so we can verify that you don’t turn up on any of our evidence?”
Jack Colton opened his mouth.
Ramsey pulled a cotton swab tube out of his pocket, took the swab, closed the tube, slid it back into his pocket and then said, “I also paid a visit to UC.” He wasn’t stopping until he knew everything there was to know. Until he had all the answers. He tapped the black portfolio he’d set on the table when he’d come in. Some of Colton’s records were there, not all of them.
Jack Colton’s gaze narrowed, but the man looked more aggravated than alarmed.
“I had a warrant for your records.” Ramsey’s coffee was getting cold as he kept one hundred percent focus on his suspect.
“You’re digging deep,” Jack replied. He hadn’t touched his coffee, either.
“I met Chester Brown.”
“He’s still there?”
“No, he’s retired. I paid a visit to his home.”
“He’s well, then?”
“Seemed to be.”
“I’m glad. I liked Chester.”
“Then why didn’t you stay in touch with him?”
“Because when I lost that scholarship, I had the choice to let the disappointment sour me, or to move on. I chose to move on. I’ve spent much of my life fighting against the chip that would like to rest on my shoulder, Detective. Things other people take for granted, I’ve had to fight for. I’ve never known the security of unconditional love. Or a guaranteed roof over my head. I never had visits from Santa at Christmastime or home-cooked holiday meals that weren’t charity handouts. I sure as hell never had anyone who would help me through college, or buy my first car, or help pay for insurance. I knew a long time ago that I had two choices. I could either feel sorry for myself, wear the chip, hate the world, take what I deserved, or I could stand up to the challenge, work hard, be a decent person and make the most of my life. I chose the latter.”
“With the exception of not coming forward the day that little Claire Sanderson went missing. It wasn’t such a decent thing, letting Frank Whittier take the fall just to save your ass.”
Colton’s gaze didn’t falter. “No, it wasn’t,” he said, looking Ramsey straight in the eye. “And that’s a choice I regret deeply. But do you really blame me, Detective?” Colton laid both hands on the table. “You’ve proven my point. This is why I didn’t come forward twenty-five years ago. I’ve done nothing wrong, but you’re poking into every aspect of my life, talking to people I associated with, laying doubt as to my innocence. You’re investigating me, Detective! Simply because I was doing my job at a time and place where someone else did something hideous.”
The man didn’t raise his voice. But he was showing emotion. A step in the right direction.
“I’m older now, Detective. And self-employed. I can handle the negative aspects of being interrogated, but twenty-five years ago I was a kid starting out. I had very little savings, no means to get a better education and no parents to fall back on. The only thing I had was my reputation and if you’d done then what you’re doing now—which we both know you would have—I could have lost every chance I had at a decent life.” None of which meant that Colton did not take that little girl.
“Chester told us that you had a girlfriend while you were at UC.”
“I dated.”
“Someone outside of UC.”
“That’s what I told the baseball team.”
“It wasn’t true?”
“I didn’t have a girl, period,” Colton said, his gaze as direct as always. “I dated a couple of girls a few times, but that was it. I knew I couldn’t get involved. I had nothing to offer anyone, no ability to support anyone.”
Not many freshmen in college thought about supporting their dates.
“I most certainly would not have brought a girl to any of those baseball parties. I didn’t date those kinds of girls. And even if I did, I wouldn’t subject any girl to the avaricious appetites of those immature, egotistical clods. They didn’t know when to say when.”
“You remember any of the girls’ names? Or anything about them?”
“One. Haley Sanders,” Colton said without hesitation. To remember a casual date’s name that easily after so many years meant something.
That the girl had made an impression? That Jack Colton was as careful with every single aspect of his life as he was with his money?
“She was sweet, different. More mature than the rest of the girls I knew.”
“You remember anything about her? Her parents? Was she a student?”
“I met her outside a movie theater near campus. She was waiting on a date who stood her up. I never met her family. Or knew that much about her. She didn’t like to talk about her life. We met up a few times, but I never even had a phone number for her. She always called me, which is how the guys knew she existed. We had a pay phone in the hall on our floor and I wasn’t always there to get her calls.”
“You hear from her lately?”
“Not since a week before the cuts were announced. Whether I made the team or not, I told her I couldn’t continue to see her.”
“Why couldn’t you see her?” He made himself sound merely curious. And had a feeling the answer was important.
“Because I liked her. A lot. And I could tell she was liking me a lot, too.”
“And that meant it had to end?”
“Yes. I was not going to settle down until I had the means to provide.”
Right. Colton had already said that.
But he’d seemed to live it, too.
“You’ve got the means now.”
“Yes.”
“By the looks of things, you’ve had them for a while.”
“That’s correct.”
“Then why haven’t you settled down?”
“I never met another Haley.”
The ring of sincerity in the man’s tone almost convinced Ramsey that Jack Colton was telling the truth.